


A Late Night's Ruminations

by being_alive



Series: Mini-Fics [4]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/being_alive/pseuds/being_alive
Summary: When you wake up, the clock on the bedside table reads a little after two in the morning, and judging by the presence of the person in bed beside you, Erik has finally come to bed. You turn to face towards him, and smile sleepily at the dark shape of him before moving yourself closer to him.





	A Late Night's Ruminations

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is short, but I'm still trying to get into the swing of writing more things for the Phantom of the Opera.

When you wake up, the clock on the bedside table reads a little after two in the morning, and judging by the presence of the person in bed beside you, Erik has finally come to bed. You turn to face towards him, and smile sleepily at the dark shape of him before moving yourself closer to him.

His hands are nice, you think to yourself, reaching down to intertwine your fingers with his. Your hand is so small compared to his, but that's okay with you. His fingers are long and thin to the point of being bony, but you've found that they're perfect for not only playing the organ but also for tangling in your hair. His hands are more than just nice, you think, remembering the way he sometimes cups your face with them while kissing you, and in fact you decide that you adore his hands. 

And speaking of kissing, you adore his lips as well, lopsided and swollen though they may be. You reach up with your free hand and gently, ever so gently, trace your fingers across his lips, starting from the relatively normal side and working your way over. From that corner of his mouth, you go upwards, keeping your touch light so as to not risk waking him, and are pleasantly surprised by what you find there, or rather what you don't find.

He'd taken off the mask before coming to bed, thank God. There have been times where you've found him asleep, still wearing it, which led to him waking with indentations in his face from the edges of it. But since he had been wise enough this time to remove it before coming to bed, your fingers meet warm, warped flesh and not cool, smooth porcelain. You trail your fingers over all the dips and bumps of his cheek, over the waxy jut of his cheekbone, back down to pass over his twisted nostril and then up the straight ridge of his nose. 

You pause at the spot between his eyebrow and where his other eyebrow would be, listening to make sure his breathing hasn't changed and that he's not awakening. He's still sleeping as soundly as he was when you awoke, so you continue your exploration of familiar planes of his face, over to the twisted skin where his eyebrow would be if he had one on this side of his face, up his forehead. You half expect your fingers to meet the slickness of his wig, but instead you find warm skin and coarse wisps of hair. You smile to yourself at your finding, and let your hand come back down to rest under the covers of the bed as you press yourself even closer to him, the fingers of your other hand still intertwined with his. 

Your smile stays even as you close your eyes to go back to sleep, simply from him being here, because you've found that as dashing as he is when he's in wig and mask and suit, you love him just as much when he's like this, when he's _him_ and nothing else, nothing more and nothing less.


End file.
